Roadmarks (12 page)

As he was paying his bill and settling up for the damage to his room. Red was approached by the wagers broker, a small, turbaned man of exotic aroma.

"Congratulations, Mr. Dorakeen," he said. "My, you are looking good this morning."

"I occasionally do," Red replied, turning. "It seldom warrants special notice, however."

"I meant, congratulations on your winnings."

"Oh? I placed a bet on something?"

"Yes. You bet on yourself in the next pass of the black decade,
Chadwick versus Dorakeen
. Don't you remember?"

"Ouch!" He massaged the bridge of his nose. "Yes, it begins to come back. Excuse me, but I'm a little hazy about yesterday. What a damned stupid thing to do . . . Wait a minute. If I won, that means there was an unsuccessful attempt on my life last night."

"So it would seem. Notice has been received that you were successful. Do you want cash, or would you have me credit your account?"

"Credit my account. Were there no particulars, then?"

"None." The man produced a document. "If you will sign this, I will give you a receipt and your winnings will be deposited."

Red scrawled his signature on it.

"Was there no disturbance in the neighborhood that might have had to do with this?"

"Only if you count the damage that I understand occurred in your room."

He shook his head.

"I doubt that. There were no
—
remains."

"Would you care to place a wager on the fifth pass?"

"Fifth? There have only been three attempts, counting this one you just paid on."

"You are listed as having survived four."

"I am afraid I do not understand, and I am not going to confuse the matter by betting again."

The broker shrugged.

"As you would."

Red hefted his bag and turned away. Mondamay glided up, holding Flowers.

"Yes, that
was
a stupid thing to do," Flowers stated as they headed toward the door. "Placing a bet!"

"I've already admitted it, but then the person I was yesterday was having a problem."

"Then you've inherited a big piece of it. Chadwick has literally had all the time in the world to zero in on you here. Do you think we'll make it across the parking lot?"

Mondamay matched circuits with Flowers.

He does look somehow different today
, he said,
but what does he mean when he speaks of not being the same person he was yesterday?

I have not been with him long enough to have made observations sufficient to permit me to understand the phenomenon
, came the reply.
But he has had three of these spells since I have known him, and on each occasion he has recovered looking several years younger but acting as if he were a different person
.

I noted that he appeared younger when I saw him back in C Eleven, but I did not know at what point in his life-line he had arrived. He had always been older when he had visited me in the past
.

How old?

Somewhere in his fifties, I'd say. I suppose it is possible that he is taking some rejuvenation medication from farther up the Road
.

I lack sufficient programs involving pharmacology to know whether such treatments would have the side effects of his spells
—
in terms of his apparent manic phase followed by a personality change
.

"I don't believe the danger in departing would be any greater than that in remaining here," Red replied.

Tell me about the personality changes
, Mondamay said.
Are they temporary irrationalities or what? He did strike me as somewhat changed from our last meeting, but I have not really observed him long enough this time to draw any conclusions
.

They seem stable each time
—
a younger outlook, more enthusiasm . . . He's less conservative, more willing to take chances, a little quicker in his responses
—
mental and physical
—
and perhaps a little more cruel, arrogant, audacious  . . . "Rash" is perhaps the best word
.

Then there is a possibility that he may be about to do something
—
rash?

I suppose there is
.

"I will precede you on the way to the car, Red," Mondamay stated, moving ahead toward the lobby door.

"That isn't necessary."

"Just the same . . . "

"Okay."

"Where are we headed?" Flowers inquired as they passed outside into a sunny morning,

"Up the Road."

"To carry the attack to Chadwick?"

"Probably."

"C Twenty-seven? That is quite a haul."

"Yes."

There was no one else about as they crossed to the vehicle and entered it.

"I will check all systems," Flowers stated, after being deposited in her niche, "before ignition."

"Go ahead."

"Red, you
are
looking well this morning," Mondamay stated, "but how do you really feel? I overheard you say something about not being clear on things you did yesterday. Do you think we ought to find someplace off the Road where you can rest?"

"Rest? Hell, no! I feel fine."

"I mean mentally, emotionally. If your memory is playing tricks
—
”

"Not important, not important. Don't concern yourself. I'm always a little fuzzy that way after one of my attacks."

"What are they like?"

"I don't know. I never can recall."

"What brings them on?"

Red shrugged.

"Who knows?"

"Do they occur at any special times? Is there a pattern to them?"

"Nothing I've ever been able to discern."

"Have you consulted a physician concerning them?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't want to be cured. I find my condition improved each time one occurs. I wake up remembering things I hadn't recalled before; I've a new outlook I always enjoy
—
”

"A moment. I thought you'd said you suffer a memory-impairment on each occasion."

"On this end, yes. On the far end, I gain more ground."

"All systems safe," Flowers announced.

"Good."

Red started the engine and headed toward the exit.

"You have confused me even more," Mondamay stated as they avoided a ragged individual wearing a crusader's cross, then turned onto the highway, passing an old vehicle driven by a young man which entered the lot and took their parking place. "What do you mean by 'the far end'? What do you remember? Have you any idea at all as to the nature of the process you are undergoing?"

Red sighed. He located a cigar and chewed on it, but he did not light it.

"All right, I remember being an old man," he began. "Very old . . . I was walking through a rocky wasteland. It was nearly morning, and it was foggy. My feet were bleeding. I was carrying a staff, and I leaned on it a lot."

He shifted the cigar from one comer of his mouth to the other and looked out of the window.

"That's all," he said.

"All? That can hardly be all," Flowers broke in. "Are you trying to say that you grew up
—
or grew to wherever you are
—
backwards? That you started out as an old man?"

"That's what I just said. Yes," Red answered irritably.

"Watch the curve
—
You mean that you remember nothing whatsoever before being old and walking through a waste? Or
—
What did you gain this time?"

"Nothing rational. Just a few delirium-dreams of odd shapes moving about me in the fog, and fear and so forth
—
and I kept going."

"Did you know where you were going?"

"No."

"And you were alone?"

"At first."

"At first?"

"Somewhere along the way, I acquired company. I'm still hazy about the circumstances, but there was an old woman. We were helping each other over the rough spots: Leila."

"There was a Leila with you years ago, on one occasion when you visited me. But she was not an old woman . . . "

"The same. Our ways have parted and rejoined many times but her situation has paralleled my own with respect to the reversed aging business."

"She was not involved in your dealings with Chadwick?"

"No, but she knew him."

"Do either of you have any idea where you are headed in your strange course of growth?"

"She seems to think that this is only a phase in a larger life cycle."

"And you do not?"

"Maybe it is. I just don't know."

"Does Chadwick know all this about you?"

"Yes."

"Could he possibly know more about it than you do?"

Red shook his head.

"No way to tell. I suppose anything is possible."

"What is his reason for being so down on you?"

"When we parted company, he was upset that I was destroying a good business arrangement."

"Were you?"

"I suppose so. But he'd changed the nature of the business and it wasn't so much fun anymore. I messed up the operations and left."

"But he is still a rich man?"

"Very wealthy."

"Then I suspect the possibility of a motive other than the economic. Jealousy, perhaps, at your improving well-being."

"Possibly, but nothing turns on it. It is his objective rather than his motive that concerns me."

"I am just trying to understand the enemy, Red."

"I know. But there isn't much else to tell."

He swung through the underpass and turned left up the access ramp. A shadow which fell upon the vehicle did not depart when he entered the light.

"Your room was quite a mess this morning," Mondamay observed.

"Yes, it was. That always happens."

"What about that design that looked like a Chinese character burned into the door? Is that a customary accompaniment?"

"No. It was just
—
a Chinese character. It meant 'good fortune.' "

"How do you explain it?"

"Don't. Can't. Strange."

Mondamay made a high-pitched, broken whistling noise.

"What's funny?"

"I was thinking of some books you once left, with pictures you had to explain to me."

"I'm afraid . . . "

"Cartoons, with captions."

Red relit his cigar.

"Not funny," he said.

The strange shadow clung to the truck's bed, Mondamay whistled again. Flowers began to sing.

Randy watched the day pulse on and off, each beat growing longer, until a chill, drizzling morning hung about them as they entered the service plaza. Golden and red-leafed maples dripped beside the frost-paned buildings. They drew up beside a fuel pump.

"This is crazy," he said. "It's summer, not autumn."

"It is autumn here. Randy, and if you wanted to take the next exit and keep heading south, you could get yourself shot at by the Army of the Confederacy
—
or the Union Army, depending of course on just where you wind up."

"You are not joking?"

"No."

"I didn't think so. Unfortunately, I'm beginning to believe you. But what's to prevent Lee's men from marching along the shoulder there and taking Washington, say
—
Coolidge's Washington? Or Elsenhower's? Or Jackson's?"

"Did you ever come upon the Road by yourself, or even hear of it?"

"No."

"Only certain people or machines can find it and travel it. I do not know why. The Road is an organic thing. This is a part of its nature, and of its travelers'."

"What if I hadn't been one of them?"

"I might have been able to bring you, anyhow. Much can depend on the guide."

"Then I still don't know whether I could have traveled it solo?"

"No."

"So, supposing one of Lee's officers did know about it and could travel it? What then?"

"Those who know about it tend to keep it to themselves, as you will learn. But even so, supposing he could? Supposing you took the next exit, as I'd suggested, and kept heading south? Supposing you'd run over Stonewall Jackson?"

"Okay, I'm supposing."

" . . . And then you had turned around and come back. You would have noticed a fork in the Road where there had been none before
—
off there somewhere in the hinterlands
—
another way merging with your own, to form the route back here. Thereafter, on returning this way, you could take the branch to the place where that accident had occurred, or the other, to the place where it did not. The former would be a very bad road, however, and would probably disappear through disuse before too long. On the other hand, if it became sufficiently well-traveled, then the other might fade. This is unlikely, but if it were to occur, you would find it increasingly difficult to locate various later routes
—
Cs back up the Road
—
and there would be new ones, somewhat different from those you had known. It would be possible to lose yourself down some byway and never get back to your point of departure."

"But traces of the other routes would still be there, fallen into disuse?"

"Theoretically, yes
—
rutted, weed-grown, cut by rivers, smothered by fallen rock
—
but the traces should remain. Finding them is the trick, though."

"It would seem easier to try to reopen them by undoing whatever had been done
—
or doing something else."

"Try it sometime. Go back to the place that is no longer as you recall it and try to subtract everything that makes it different. Altering the single pivotal event may no longer be sufficient. The new alteration may have other effects also, depending on how you go about it. You would probably simply establish another route
—
though, of course, it may be close enough to the original to suit your purposes. Then again, maybe not."

"Stop. Right there. Let me digest it. I'll ask you more later. Why did we stop here, anyway? We don't have to get gas yet."

"We stopped because this one is self-service. If you will open me to page 78 and place me face down in that box beside the pump, I will act as a credit card, drawing on my former employer's account. I will know in a moment whether the account is still active. I may also be able to discover where he last fueled, and we can head for that point."

"All right," Randy said, raising Leaves and opening the door. "Mind telling me what name that account would be under?"

"Dorakeen."

"What sort of name
is
that?"

"I don't really know."

He moved around the vehicle, inserted the volume into the unit. A light came on within.

"Go ahead and top it off," said Leaves's muffled voice. "The account is still active."

"Seems sort of like stealing."

"Hell, if he
is
your old man, the least he can do is buy you some gas."

He uncapped the tank, drew down the hose, raised a lever.

"He last fueled at an early C Sixteen stop," Leaves said as he squeezed the trigger. "We'll go there from here, ask around."

"Who runs these rest stops and gas stations, anyhow?"

"They are a strange breed. Exiles, refugees
—
people who can't go home and can't or won't adapt to a new land. Lost souls
—
people who can't find their ways home and are afraid to leave the Road. Jaded travelers
—
people who've been everywhere and now prefer a timeless, placeless place like this."

He chuckled.

"Is Ambrose Bierce writing a book near here?"

"As a matter of fact
—
”

The nozzle clicked. He squeezed in a little more and capped the tank.

"You said C Sixteen. I take it that means the sixteenth century?"

"Right Most people who travel the Road much beyond their own section pick up a kind of trading language called foretalk. It is sort of like Yoruba, Malinka or Hausa in Africa
—
kind of synthetic and used across wide areas. There are some variations, but I can always translate for you if the need arises."

He opened the unit, withdrew Leaves.

"I'd like you to teach me as we drive along," he said. "I've always been interested in languages, and this one seems particularly useful."

"Glad to."

They entered the car.

"Leaves," he said as he seated himself, "you must have some sort of optical scanning setup . . . "

"Yes."

"Well, there is a photo between your last page and the back cover. Can you see it?"

"No. It is facing in the wrong direction. Insert it almost anywhere else. Page 78 is particularly
—
”

He withdrew the photo, thrust it into the center of the volume, squeezed tight. Several seconds ticked by.

"Well?" he asked.

"Yes. I have scanned the photo."

"Is it him? Is that Dorakeen?"

"It
—
It appears to be. If it is not, the resemblance is very strong."

"Then let's go and find him.

He started the engine.

As he headed down the ramp, he asked, "What line of work is he in?"

There was a long pause; then, "I am not exactly certain. He transported all sorts of things for a long while. Made considerable sums of money. Much of that time he was in partnership with a man named Chadwick, who later transferred his operations a good distance up the Road. Chadwick became extremely powerful, apparently as a result of their activities, and they eventually had a falling-out. This occurred at about the time I was
—
forgotten
—
by him. He must have departed suddenly, as you say. So all I really know of his occupation is that it involved transportation."

Randy chuckled.

" . . . But I have always wondered," Leaves continued.

"What?" Randy asked.

"Whether he might not have been in one of those categories I mentioned earlier
—
the people who can't find their ways home. He always seemed to be looking for something
—
exploring, testing. And I never did know exactly where he came from. He spent a lot of time poking around sideroads. And after a while, I believe that he did try to
—
alter things
—
here and there. Only his memory of the exact set of circumstances he wanted to re-create did not seem quite complete, as though it might have been something from a very long time ago. Yes, he traveled a lot . . . "

"Made it to Cleveland, anyway," Randy said, "at least for a little while." Then, "What was he like? I mean, personally."

"That is a difficult question. Restless
—
if I had to choose one word."

"I mean
—
honest? Dishonest? A nice guy? A prick?"

"Yes, he was all of those things at various times. His personality was liable to change suddenly. But later . . . Later on he got
—
self-destructive . . . "

Randy shook his head.

"I guess I'll just have to wait, if he's still around. How about a language lesson?"

"Very well."